Michelle Griep

by A Heart Deceived

  Roland’s smile vanished. “What concern is that of mine?”

  “There’s blood, sir.” The cook ceased her wringing and grabbed handfuls of her apron instead. “Blood on the horse.”

  “Then have him bind the creature’s wound. I know naught of animal husbandry.”

  “It’s not the horse what’s bleedin’, sir.” Mrs. Makin released her right hand and crossed herself.

  Unease twisted Miri’s stomach as Roland shoved past the cook and disappeared from the dining room.

  Mrs. Makin whirled to leave, but Miri halted her with a question. “Is Joe all right?”

  Pausing, the woman looked over her shoulder and sniffed. “I’m of a mind that Ol’ Joe is the rightest of us all. You mark my words, strange happenings are afoot. Take a care, miss. Take a care.”

  5

  Miri let the admonition follow Mrs. Makin down the corridor as the woman retreated to the kitchen. Take a care. Really. As if she didn’t have bigger problems.

  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to question Roland about the vicar’s horse when he returned. A simple explanation from him would put all their minds at rest. Leaving the dining room, Miri headed toward the study. The room’s bay window gave a direct view of the stables. She’d be the first to see when her brother returned.

  She inhaled as she crossed the threshold. Leather, beeswax, old books … ahh. A simple pleasure, truly. One that she savored. Outside, the clouds had finally released fat raindrops, pelting the glass in a soothing rhythm. She yawned, her whole body feeling the pull of an overstuffed chair opposite the desk. The grey morning, combined with her sleepless night, would make for a grand nap. Tempting, indeed, but utterly out of the question. If Roland caught her asleep in his sanctuary—

  Better not to think it.

  When another yawn stretched her jaw, she turned her back to the chair and stationed herself near the window to watch for Roland … until her head started to bob. Maybe a little movement would help.

  She walked the perimeter of the room, pausing at the farthest wall to scan the bookshelves. Surely her brother would not object if she glanced at a volume from the collection, but would anything be interesting enough to keep her awake? Theology, doctrine, liturgies. Naught on the top shelf.

  Running her finger along the spines of the second shelf revealed nothing appealing, either. She bent and perused the third. Dry, dull titles, one after another. Was this entire day to be ill fated? Bending farther, she looked to the bottom, her last hope.

  At the very end, one book stuck out beyond the rest. Must be good to be kept at such easy availability. She retrieved it and squinted at the small print on the cover. Praesulibus Angliae Commentarius. No doubt a breathtaking read for a student of Latin. She barely grasped the finer points of French.

  Sighing, she shoved it back, but the troublesome volume would not be pushed in all the way. Hmm. Either her strength waned from such a bent position, or something blocked the silly thing from resting flush with the other titles.

  She pulled the commentary out once more, then fished her finger around the depths of the dark space. At last she finagled out a worn copy that had been hidden behind, nearly cracking her fingernail in the process. Giving in to the complaint of her lower back muscles, she stood to examine the book.

  A Bible. Not surprising, really. But why had it been jammed into such an irretrievable cranny? Opening the cover, she smoothed the thin paper on the inscription page to better read the faded ink.

  Grant that you will be as diligent in the scriptures

  As God is in the lives of the sheep you will shepherd.

  May all the blessings of heaven pour out upon you,

  Bartholomew James Eldon,

  With this holy Word of God entrusted to your care and keeping.

  Servo Deus non vir.

  ~ Bishop Randall Dewhurst

  This was Mr. Eldon’s Bible. But why would—

  “What are you doing here?” Roland’s voice boomed behind her, and she dropped the book.

  Ethan slugged back half a mug of watered stout, trying to drive away a metallic taste that would not be shaken and satisfy the thirst haunting him. No good. He could down a keg and still feel no better. Setting the empty cup on the stone floor, he leaned forward in his chair. Even this close to the hearth, shivers ran through him. Traitorous body.

  Newton’s rhythmic scraping of blade on wood stopped, his whittling knife paused in midair. “How you holding up, lad?”

  “I could use a healing touch right about now.” He edged nearer to the fire. “Would that God might move a little faster.”

  Newton’s blade resumed its motion. Small curls added to those already littering the floor, increasing the scent of pine. “God works powerfully, lad, but for the most part gradually and gently.”

  “Gradual?” Ethan grunted. “Seems to me God’s work in Will Brayden was too gradual.” Turning from the hearth, Ethan pinned the reverend with a searching gaze. “And where is Will now? Is he in heaven or—”

  He pressed his lips tight. If he so much as finished that thought, it would be like damning Will himself.

  “Who can say? Only God knows.” Newton’s voice, loud under the best of conditions, bounced from one wall to the other in the small room.

  Ethan blew out a long, ragged breath. “It should have been me.”

  Newton chuckled. “You know, whenever I reach heaven, I expect to find three wonders. First, to meet some I had not thought to see there. Second, to miss some I had expected to see there. And third, the greatest wonder of all, to find myself there.”

  Newton’s crazy declaration went down the wrong way, and Ethan choked. “But … but you’re a saint!”

  One of the reverend’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “Who can say, lad? Only God—”

  The sitting room door swung open, and Charlie, the churchwarden’s son, peeked in. “Reverend?”

  “Aye?” Again Newton’s knife suspended its shaving.

  “There’s a constable at the front door a-wantin’ to see you.” After a few blinks, the boy vanished like a mouse through a hole.

  Ethan shot to his feet, his chair crashing backward. How had they known where to find him?

  “Ack, ye’re skittish as a landlubber at sea.” Newton rose, setting his carving aside. He righted the chair and shoved it toward Ethan. “Sit yourself down.”

  At a time like this? He snorted as he scanned the few bits of furniture in the room. None were big enough to hide behind. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then enlighten me.”

  Ethan grimaced. How could he speak of his own hand in murdering Thorne when he didn’t want to remember it himself? Worse, by seeking refuge here, he’d dragged a man of God into the scandal. Raking a hand through his hair, he settled on vagueness as the safest route. “You know I come from Old Nichol. Need I say more?”

  Newton folded his arms, studying him like an obscure scripture. “What of your resolve to start a new life?”

  An ember popped from the hearth, and Ethan jumped, the gun-like snap as jarring as Newton’s question. “I must leave.”

  Drawing near, the old man rested a hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “I suspect you’ll do what you must, but know this … you are welcome to stay, constable or not.”

  The reverend’s light touch ill-compared to the weight of his own conscience. Opium eater. Philanderer. Liar, cheater, drunkard. And now murderer as well. He pulled away, as surely as God must be pulling from him. It was error indeed to ever think he could lead a respectable life. He shot the reverend a heavy-lidded glance. “You would not say so if you knew the mistakes I’ve made.”

  Newton threw back his head and laughed, the irony of his humor startling. Most clerics would have seized the chance to point a finger. Not this one—which was why Ethan had listened to the old man in the first place.

  “Ahh, hah …” Wheezing, the reverend paused to catch his breath. “I believe we’ve been over this before. We serve a gracious Master, lad, who I daresay kno
ws how to overrule our mistakes, to His glory and our advantage.”

  “I don’t have time for accolades!” Ethan winced at his own harshness. Had that really come from his own mouth? The reverend didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of his anger. “Forgive me, sir. I owe you my thanks, and I owe God—”

  “No, no lad. Whatever debt you think you owe God has already been paid. I forgive you as freely as our gracious Lord has, for did He not readily give up His life for the likes of us both?”

  Thick emotion clogged Ethan’s throat, and he closed his eyes. The image of Will taking the knife meant for him lent all the more reality to Newton’s words. He nodded, then met the gaze of acceptance Newton offered. “Thank you.”

  The reverend scratched the stubble on his head. “Not me, lad. Thank God.”

  A smile tugged his lips, a marvel truly, for how could he feel a thrill of joy with a constable outside? A wonder indeed—nay, a miracle. He glanced upward. “Yes indeed, thank You, God.”

  A stream of peace washed over him, seeping into the jagged places deep inside, until fear dammed it up. Urgency to leave this place pulsed stronger with each heartbeat. “Now truly, I must go.”

  “Where?” The reverend scanned his face as though looking for the hint of a storm cloud on the horizon. “Surely not back to Old Nichol, though I just might sail over there myself. There’s a whole sea of drowning souls in that neighborhood.”

  Ethan blew out a long breath. Where could he go? In a different world, he might have gone home, but returning there now would be an uncharted, impossible journey. He shook his head. “I am not sure, though I have been told someone on the city’s west end might help me, Will’s sister. Miri Brayden.”

  “Brayden. Brayden.” The reverend tapped a finger on his temple. “Seems to me I’ve heard that name before, spoken by those more learned than me. Hmm. Ask the rector at St. Giles. He ought to know who resides in his own parish, if he’s worth his salt.”

  “Reverend!” Charlie ran into the room, nearly crashing into Newton save for the old man’s hand that halted him at arm’s length. “The constable, sir, he won’t be put off much longer. He says—”

  “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.” Newton patted the boy on the head.

  Ethan’s pulse hammered out of control.

  Charlie frowned. “But—”

  “Go.” The pat turned into a swat. Newton watched the boy exit, then turned to Ethan. “And God go with you, lad. You’ll be in my prayers.”

  Good. He’d take all the prayers he could get. Penniless and on the run, he’d need them.

  6

  Nigel Thorne rolled over on the thin mattress, blanket tangling in a lump beneath him. Slowly, he opened his eyes, and the pounding in his head increased. No wonder that gin had been so cheap. Skunk of a barkeep. A thin shaft of sunlight breached the hole in the curtain and glinted off the broken bottle lying on the floor. He tried to focus on the resulting prism splotching a dab of color on the wall opposite him, but no good. Fuzzy vision. Fuzzier tongue. He licked his lips and swallowed.

  Rap, rap, rap. Pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, Nigel applied firm and steady pressure. Who knew? Maybe it would counteract the throbbing and even it out to a dull ache. He scrunched his eyes shut, willing it so.

  Rap, rap, rap. The noise continued ever louder. Not even a beastly head-banger could sound that sharp.

  Rising too fast, he winced from the pain stabbing the length of his wound. First his head, now his body. A baneful start to the day.

  Rap, rap, rap.

  “Hold on.” Good advice. Nigel steadied himself against a littered table. When the room stopped spinning, he reached for a rumpled pair of breeches hanging half off the back of a chair. Aiming his foot for the leg hole, he caught his toe on the trousers’ crotch and teetered off balance. He flailed his arms and caught himself, then shoved his foot through one leg after the other. But something sure did not feel right. Were these his pants?

  Rap, rap-rap-rap-rap.

  “Coming!” Oh, sweet peacock. He’d put the pants on backward. Tussling with the fabric one more time, he swapped them proper and crossed the room.

  He opened the door to a hedgehog. Leastwise that’s the image he got whenever he faced Constable Duffy. The man’s bristly hair, peppered with white, spiked straight on end like so many quills. Loose skin jiggled when he spoke, and it took all Nigel’s self-restraint to keep from poking the man just to see if he’d roll up into a ball.

  “Mr. Duffy.” Nigel greeted him but did not step aside.

  “Mr. Thorne.” Duffy snuffled as if that might clear his nasally voice. “I did what you said.”

  Nigel looked past the man to an empty corridor. “So where is he?”

  “No one’s seen him.” Duffy’s nose twitched, and he leaned closer. “If you ask me, sir, Ethan Goodwin’s on the run, that’s what. Skipped town. Wouldn’t you, if you had murder a-hanging over yer head?”

  Smiling at the man’s naïveté, Nigel rubbed his hands together. “Good work, Duffy. Next time our boy Ethan surfaces in London, we’ll clap him in irons and pack him off to Newgate. Put the case on close for now, eh?”

  “Right, sir.” Duffy nodded. As he retreated down the hall to the flat’s single stairwell, Nigel half expected to see a stubby tail on his backside. But hedgehog or not, at least the man knew how to carry out orders, and confidentially at that.

  Nigel shut the door, relieved there’d be no more active snooping into the Will Brayden killing. Perhaps this day would not be so bad after all. A drink or two to celebrate, why … he felt so light in the heels he might just pay a visit to good ol’ Pegg.

  Rap, rap, rap.

  Now what? Surely the constable didn’t expect his palm greased further. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to pay for additional silence on the matter. Sidestepping glass shards, Nigel rummaged through the assorted geegaws and doodads littering the table, finally uncovering a tattered money purse. No coins jingled as he lifted it.

  Loosening the drawstring, he tipped it upside down, then shook it for good measure. Nothing.

  Rap, rap, rap.

  “Look, Duffy …” As he opened the door, the words died on his lips—and not from a fuzzy tongue. A freak of nature filled the space. Goliath incarnate.

  “Nigel Thorne?” The giant’s voice rumbled louder than a lion’s growl. Why did big always mean bass?

  Despite wanting to appear courageous, Nigel retreated a step. “You’ve found his home, all right, but uh …” He glanced over his shoulder at his bed, his table, his chair, collecting just the right amount of confidence to sound believable, then turned back. “As you can see, he’s not here, mate.”

  The mammoth grunted. “The name’s Buck.” Reaching out with surprising speed, he gripped Nigel by the throat and lifted him. “Not mate.”

  Nigel’s feet dangled. He clawed at the man’s arm, panic increasing along with his heart rate.

  The man’s voice was even louder at eye level. “Seeing as Thorne isn’t about, perhaps you can relay a little message for me.”

  Squirming, Nigel tried to pry the man’s fingers from his neck. Hah. He might as easily bed the queen herself. Any more of this and his head would pop.

  “Tell Thorne I stopped by to collect a debt owed to Mr. Havisway.”

  Nigel’s lungs started to burn.

  “And that Mr. Havisway don’t take kindly to late payments. Understand?”

  He’d nod if he could. Blackness closed in, Buck’s face becoming one enormous nose.

  “I’ll be back in a day or two.” Buck squeezed tighter. “Mr. Thorne.”

  He tossed Nigel backward one-handed. When he landed, pieces of glass ground into his palms.

  So this would be a bad day.

  Very bad.

  Sucking in air, he worked his way to the chair and pulled himself up. He sat a good long time. Coughing. Hacking. Thinking.

  Where in the world would he get the guineas to pay off a gambling spree gone awry?

 
; Miri whirled, and her skirt poufed out, covering the vicar’s Bible. Pressing a hand to her chest, she tried to keep her heart inside her frame and slow her erratic breathing. “Goodness, Roland, you startled me.” Truly, his catching her by surprise was turning into a disturbing trend.

  “Sinners conceal their works, alarmed only when found out.” Though standing in the doorway, well beyond arm’s reach, he held her in place with a fixated stare. “I repeat, what are you doing here?”

  Unable to contain her irritation, Miri sighed. “I was watching for your return, that’s all. The study window affords the best view.”

  “Yet you do not stand at the window.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Her brother’s jaw clenched. She would gain no information if she drove him into a foul humor.

  Smiling, she patted her hair, hopefully drawing his attention upward while her toe worked to shove the vicar’s Bible into the shadows at the bookcase’s side. Why she felt the need to hide the thing, she wasn’t certain, but it was a driving desire nonetheless. “You tarried so long, weariness gained the better of me. I paced the room and thought perhaps to borrow a book, and so you find me. What did you discover at the stables?”

  “As the cook said, Eldon’s horse.” He crossed to the cherrywood desk, diverting his interest to a stack of scattered documents.

  Just the break she needed. Her foot pushed until the vicar’s Bible nestled against the wall. Still observable, but not obvious. She joined Roland opposite the desk. “And?”

  “And what?” He shuffled the papers together.

  “What about the blood on the horse?”

  “I saw none.” He shuffled faster.

  “But Old Joe said—”

  “Old Joe?” Roland set down the papers and planted his palms on the desk. “Whom do you choose to believe, Miriall?”

  Miri gnawed her lower lip. Some choice. An elderly jack-of-all-trades or an academic bully. “Of course I do not doubt you, Roland. I simply fail to understand why—”